• Skip to primary navigation
  • Skip to main content
  • Skip to primary sidebar
  • Skip to footer

Sugarbeat's Books

The Home of the Romance Novel

  • Home
  • Blog
  • About Me
  • Review Policy
  • Review List
  • My Books

elizabeth boyle

Along Came a Duke by Elizabeth Boyle

By Barb Drozdowich Leave a Comment

Welcome to Sugarbeat’s Books – The Home of the Romance Novel!

sugarbeat's books romance novels romance book reviews

along

Along Came  Duke by Elizabeth Boyle

Blurb:

 

AVON BOOKS

ISBN: 0062089064

May 29, 2012

 

“A young lady with a fortune is subject to all sorts of untoward attentions by the worst sort of vagrants.” ~Aunt Allegra

 

A lesson, Tabitha Timmons, a penniless spinster, has never needed to heed. That is, until she is left a vast fortune payable only upon her marriage to the very respectable Mr. Barkworth—a match that offers little chance of discovering exactly what her aunt means by “untoward attentions.”

 

But the same can’t be said when the Duke of Preston happens along Tabitha’s path. He spies a rebellious streak in her that matches his own, and he makes it his mission to save her from such a passionless match, interfering in her life at every turn. All too soon, Preston–whose very name spells ruin–has Tabitha caught between the good fortune that guarantees her security, and his kiss, which promises an entirely different kind of happily ever after.

 Why do you need to read this book?

Other than the obvious reason – Elizabeth Boyle wrote this book!!! It is a thoroughly delightful romp. Tabitha and the Duke of Preston are a wonderful combination that shouldn’t be missed!

Along Came A Duke can be purchased at Amazon

Excerpt:

Chapter 1

 

Kempton, Sussex

1810

The day dawned like it always did in May in the village of Kempton, with a bright sprinkle of sunshine, a hint of dew on the grass and the birds singing happy choruses in the garden.

There was no indication whatsoever that on this day, Miss Tabitha Timmons would not only find herself betrothed, but fall madly and deeply in love.

And not necessarily with the same man.

More about this unfortunate turn of events in a moment.

No, the only thing on Tabitha’s mind as she stepped out of the vicarage that afternoon, closing the door quietly behind her on her way to the Tuesday afternoon meeting of the Society for the Temperance and Improvement of Kempton, was that she was escaping her aunt’s demands and her uncle’s complaints for the next blessed three hours.

“Ho, there,” Miss Daphne Dale called out cheerily from the garden gate where she had been waiting for Tabitha. (Yes, she’s one of those Dales, but this is Tabitha’s story and Daphne’s inevitable adventures will have to wait.)

“I was beginning to fear she wasn’t going to let you come,” Daphne continued in a loud whisper as she reached down and gave Tabitha’s ever present dog, Mr. Muggins, a scratch behind the ears.

“Then Aunt Allegra would have to attend,” Tabitha said, glancing over her shoulder and thankful that the curtains were all still drawn–which meant her aunt wasn’t there peering after her, trying to come up with some excuse to call her back.

“Wretched notion that,” Daphne declared, linking her arm into Tabitha’s and towing her friend away from the vicarage that had once been Tabitha’s happy home.

It should still be such a place, sitting as it did, stubby and content in the shadow of St. Edward’s church, a large and ancient relic from the Norman times with its high stone walls, long nave and a bell tower that was only dwarfed by the heights of Foxgrove, the Earl of Roxley’s nearby estate.

Instead, with her father’s death two years ago of a heart ailment and the installation of her uncle as the new vicar, Tabitha’s beloved childhood home was naught but a dreary, dreadful place.

At least, Tabitha mused, she was still allowed to attend the Society meetings, if only because her aunt found the mission of providing charity baskets to Kempton’s many spinsters a tedious chore.

They ambled along Meadow Lane, the narrow track that led from the vicarage to High Street, while Daphne chattered on as if nothing had ever changed.

“–Lady Essex will never allow Louisa and Lavinia to have their way on this matter. The buntings for the Midsummer Ball have always been lavender. Apple green, indeed!”

Tabitha smiled and let the idle talk wash over her like a great balm, for when she was with Daphne or at the weekly Society meetings, it was easy to believe that nothing about her once idyllic life had changed.

For this was Kempton, one of those agreeable English gems, hidden away in a small, verdant valley where a tidy little river cut a winding path through meadows and fields alike, lending the mill just enough current to turn its ancient wheel.

“–I even called on the twins yesterday and tried–most politely–to explain how they will only raise Lady Essex’s ire if they persist.” Daphne huffed a sigh. “Oh, how Louisa and Lavinia love trouble!”

Tabitha eyed her friend and grinned. “You honestly thought you could deter them?”

“I had hoped,” Daphne confessed. “And if that failed, I thought my new bonnet would distract them.” She tipped her head to show the green silk bonnet with its grey ribbon off to advantage.

Tabitha was used to Daphne’s preening and laughed. “You convinced your father to advance your allowance, didn’t you?”

Her friend grinned unrepentantly, blue eyes alight, her gloved hand rising to touch the jaunty brim. “Yes, and worth every shilling,” Daphne declared, “I was afraid Papa wouldn’t relent before Miss Fielding discovered it and snatched it up for herself and you know how ill she looks in green!”

Tabitha laughed. The rivalry between Daphne and Miss Fielding grew deeper with each passing year.

“I think it would look perfect on you,” Daphne said, in an off-handed way. “You could try it on when we get to Lady Essex’s.” She glanced over at Tabitha, her gaze filled with kindness, her teeth holding her lower lip as she waited.

Knowing exactly what her friend intended, Tabitha shook her head. “You know I cannot consider such a thing. You recall how my aunt was when you gave me those gloves last winter.”

“They weren’t charity,” Daphne declared, her brow now furrowed. “And neither would this be. ‘Tis only that you haven’t had a new hat in . . . ”

“Two years,” Tabitha replied. Nor a new gown. Or shoes. Or stockings. “Truly, I don’t mind.”

“Well, I do!” Daphne shot back. “Your aunt and uncle should be ashamed of how they begrudge you even scraps.”

What could Tabitha say? It was all true–her aunt and uncle had been more than happy to gain the elevated position of her father’s living when he’d died, but the guardianship of his penniless daughter? Not in the least. Aunt Allegra even liked to complain that her niece took up too much space in the corner of the attic they’d graciously allotted for her to sleep in.

“Every time your uncle gives a sermon on charity, I want to stand up and call him an overbearing hypocrite,” Daphne said.

“You’re incorrigible,” Tabitha scolded, though only half-heartedly–for if anyone had her best interests at heart, it was Daphne.

“Who is incorrigible?” Miss Harriet Hathaway asked as she joined them where Meadow Lane met High Street. In true Harriet fashion, her hem was muddy, her gown slightly rumpled, her bonnet askew and on one of her pink cheeks was a smudge of something. She’d probably realized the time and come dashing out of the Pottage stables without a second glance toward a mirror.

Lady Essex was guaranteed to be put out by her protégée’s untidy appearance. Her ladyship had high hopes of taking Harriet to London and finding her a grand match, though hardly anyone in Kempton put much stock in such notions.

After all, this was “Harry” Hathaway they were talking about.

“I am,” Daphne told her and then deftly changed the subject. “I bought a new bonnet.”

Harriet spared it a glance. “Oh, yes, so you have. Isn’t that the one you showed me last week in Mrs. Welling’s window?”

Daphne nodded, which showed off the hat to its best advantage.

Taking another look, Harriet asked, “But I thought it had that feather trim on it?”

“I removed it,” Daphne said quietly, tipping her head nonchalantly at Mr. Muggins.

Tabitha cringed. She loved her dog dearly, but he had no notion that a feathered trim on a pelisse or a jaunty quill tucked in the brim of a hat was not attached to an actual bird.

When he’d ravaged three of Aunt Allegra’s hats, not long after they’d arrived, the lady had threatened to have him cast out—only to find the entire village of Kempton and a good portion of the population from the surrounding villages refused to take him in, much to Tabitha’s relief.

Finally, the indignant lady had done as Daphne had and removed the remaining feathers from her all hats. Even the indomitable Lady Essex removed the feathers from her favorite turban before she would wear it to a Society meeting.

No feather was safe when Mr. Muggins was close at hand.

“You look tired, Tabitha,” Harriet remarked. “And thinner. You are working too hard.”

Tabitha glanced away. “I had to have the scrubbing done before I left, so I got up early.”

Daphne slanted a look at her. “And I suppose you also polished the silver and washed the dishes and got the table laid for supper and the vegetables cut for Mrs. Oaks.”

 

That was nearly all of it, but she’d also done the ironing as well. Still, she rose up in the face of their concern. “Don’t look at me so. The work is nothing.”

Harriet’s jaw set. “Someone needs to remind your aunt that you are a lady and not the charring girl.”

“I would prefer they didn’t,” Tabitha said. At least she had a roof over her head, a point her aunt and uncle liked to point out on a daily basis.

“You can always come live–” Harriet began, but Tabitha stopped her with a sharp shake of her head.

You can always come live at the Pottage.

Just as Lady Essex had offered her a place at Foxgrove, and Daphne a room at Dale House, but her uncle and aunt had refused to allow Tabitha to move out, convinced she would turn wanton and licentious without their ever-present protection.

That, and they would lose a free maid.

But there was also the simple fact that Tabitha loved the vicarage–it had always been her home, and though she now had naught but a small corner under the eaves and ate in the kitchen, at least she could still tend her mother’s flowers in the gardens and gaze upon her father’s sure handwriting as she made entries into the parish record.

It was the closest thing to a home she would ever have.

“If only we weren’t from Kempton,” Daphne said, sighing loudly. “Then you could marry and escape your aunt’s demands.”

“Let us think of something more merry,” Harriet proposed as if she’d spied the shadow crossing Tabitha’s face. “Such as how scarlet Lady Essex’s cheeks will be when the Tempest twins make their ridiculous motion–yet again–to changing the color of the Midsummer’s Eve buntings.”

They all three laughed and continued contentedly along, for which Tabitha was glad. At least some things never changed.

They were approaching the smithy, where Mr. Thury’s hammer rang sharp and clear as he worked steadily at some task. The sound was familiar, but nonetheless, Daphne came to an abrupt halt.

“Oh my!” Her gasp was followed by Harriet stumbling to a stop, the heels of her boots digging into the gravel.

She let forth with an oath most obviously learned from one of her five brothers and finished with a rather unladylike, “That’s a demmed fine rig!”

Tabitha stopped and glanced back at them and then put her hand to her forehead and squinted into the sunlight, until she was able to focus on the sight that held her friends captive.

For indeed a fancy carriage, a phaeton she believed it to be–but she’d leave that designation to Harriet who was far more informed about such matters. Whatever it was, it now sat lopsided with one wheel removed and most likely being repaired by Mr. Thury.

The oddity was unlike anything usually seen in Kempton.

For while Kempton had quite the abundance of spinsters and unmarried ladies, it rather lacked a population of gentleman–so much so that such masculine trappings were a rare sight indeed.

“Goodness, have you ever seen anything so admirable?” Daphne whispered.

Tabitha slanted a glance at her friend. “I doubt even your father would cozzen such a conveyance.”

“I wasn’t looking at the carriage,” Daphne confessed. “Rather at the gentleman in that splendid jacket.” She slanted her glance toward a tall, elegantly attired man standing under the smithy’s awning, holding a large pint in his hand–and worse yet, grinning in their direction. “Whoever could he be?”

“Oh, that’s just Roxley,” Harriet supplied. Then much to Tabitha’s horror, her friend waved at the nobleman like one might hail the grocer or a passing peddler.  “Ho, there, my lord. Have you come to visit your aunt?”

Without any propriety or thought for good manners, Harriet plowed on ahead, extending her hand to Lord Roxley–the-all-too infamous and ruinous Lord Roxley–so very rarely seen in these parts that it was no wonder he could arrive and not be recognized.

“He’s the earl?” Daphne whispered under her breath, her gaze fixed exactly as Tabitha’s was on Lady Essex’s nephew.

“I didn’t know you were coming to Kempton, Roxley,” Harriet said with comfortable familiarity. Then again, Tabitha was always a bit awed at Harriet’s easy manners with the opposite sex. She supposed it was because her friend, having grown up with six brothers, saw them not as mysterious and dangerous practitioners of ruin, but good company.

Odd notion, really, to Tabitha’s way of thinking.

“Chaunce wrote me just this week and didn’t mention you were coming down from town,” Harriet continued to scold.

“Sssh, Harry! ‘Tis a devilish secret that I’m here.” The handsome fellow winked at her.

The girl straightened and shook her head. “You know you musn’t call me that! You will have your aunt in horrors! I am Miss Hathaway now.” She struck a pose that would have made even Lady Essex proud.

But Roxley appeared unimpressed. He leaned closer, like a conspirator. “Miss Hathaway, indeed! Not to me, Harry. Never.” He reached over and tweaked her cheek.

Harriet shooed his hand away and laughed.  “You never change, Roxley.”

“I hope not. I fear I would disappoint my family utterly if I turned up one day all stodgy and straitlaced like your brother Quinton.” He laughed again and then glanced over at Tabitha and Daphne, before giving Harriet a pointed look.

Remembering her manners, Harriet said quickly, “My lord, may I present Miss Timmons and Miss Dale.”

“You most certainly may,” he said.

Tabitha gave the man some credit, for having heard his character lamented over and over again by his great aunt, Lady Essex, he then made an elegant bow as she and Daphne dipped into proper curtsies.

“And who is this?” he asked, reaching out a hand to give Mr. Muggins an amiable pat on the head.

The dog replied with a low growl.

“I am so sorry, my lord,” Tabitha rushed to say, “I fear he is uneasy around strangers.”

“Noble beast,” Roxley managed as he drew his fingers back warily.

“‘Tis the feather in your brim,” Harriet told him.

“The what?” he said, eyeing the large dog, who was now watching him like a wolf might a lost lamb.

“The feather in your hat,” Harriet repeated, reaching up and plucking the white quill from his brim.

“Hey, that’s my souvenir–”

But whatever its meaning, the feather was gone as Harriet quickly dispatched it, tossing it to Mr. Muggins, who caught it deftly, and then looked up his mistress, an overly proud expression in his eyes at having caught his prey.

“You can thank me one day,” Harriet told Roxley, as if that was enough an explanation.

“Whatever happened to your carriage, my lord?” Tabitha ventured, changing the subject.

“Not my carriage, Miss Timmons. Preston’s.” The earl waved his hand over toward the smithy. “I warned him not to take the corner by the great oak at that speed, but would he listen?” He shrugged and grinned as if their dangerous and foolhardy misfortune was a badge of honor.

Harriet laughed. “My brother George did the same thing last spring. Hell bent he was, my father says.”

“Harriet!” Daphne gasped. “Remember what Lady Essex said about language! She’d double her lessons if she were to hear you say such a thing.”

“No, Harry!” Roxley lamented, glancing from Daphne back to Harriet. “You aren’t letting my aunt ruin you?”

“Not ruin, my lord,” Harriet told him. “Just round me out. My mother has given up. But Lady Essex is determined. She has plans to bring me to Town next month.”

“To Town, you say?” Roxley asked.

“Yes, didn’t she write you?”

“Never does,” he told her. “Just shows up and bedevils me for weeks on end.” He grinned at her. “Now I am forewarned and in your debt.”

“Yes, well you can dance with me at Almack’s.”

“Never!” he said with a shudder. “I shall be away all next month. Yes, away. Hunting.”

“It isn’t the season for hunting,” Harriet told him, folding her arms over her chest.

“It is somewhere,” he teased back.

“If you are so resolved to avoiding Lady Essex, whatever are you doing here in Kempton?” Harriet asked.

“Racing! We were trying to beat that coxcomb Kipps back to London, and I told Preston that we could use the Kempton road as a shortcut. Bet Dillamore a monkey we’d get to Town first.” He raked his hand through his hair and looked again at the lopsided carriage. “Always forget that corner by the oak,” he said with a rueful shake of his head.

“Dear me,” Tabitha said. “Five hundred pounds?”

Daphne’s eyes went wide at the amount. “I do hope Mr. Thury knows how imperative it is that you get your wheel repaired.”

“Oh, he does,” Roxley told her. “Preston has even pitched in. Prestigious fellow that he is. Though might be ’cause he’s got twice that wagered and he’ll be in the suds if we lose.” Lord Roxley craned his head toward the smithy’s forge and called out, “We’ll beat Kipps yet, eh Preston?”

There was a low growled muttering from behind the forge where a bent over figure worked.

The earl shrugged, a rather apologetic motion. “He’s in ever-so-foul a mood. Ho, there! Preston! Come meet some of the local ladies. There are few gentlemen in these parts and we are considered a rarity.”

On that, Roxley had the right of it.

Gentlemen left this sleepy, forgotten corner of England for school as soon as they were out of short pants and few returned–the lure of the army, the navy, and even the clergy offered far more exciting venues than the quiet meadows and green hills of Kempton. Hadn’t all of Harriet’s brothers–save George, her father’s heir–hied off to the four corners of the world rather than remain in the place of their birth.

And they did so because they could.

Tabitha had to wonder at this friend of Lord Roxley’s–for she knew well enough from his aunt about the earl’s licentious character–but this associate of his, this Mr. Preston? What sort of man would bet so much on a carriage race?

It was scandalous, but at the same time, Tabitha felt a frisson of envy that these men had the freedom to wager such staggering amounts and jaunt about the countryside at will, while she was . . . she was . . . trapped.

Trapped by her circumstances . . . by a lack of opportunities. Never before had she ever felt the lure of London, but looking at this swift carriage and the freedom it lent its owners Tabitha’s heart beat with a rare note of rebellion.

A few moments before she would have described herself as content–overworked, tired and slightly underfed, yes–but content, now suddenly she chaffed at the inequity of it all.

No hope of marriage. No way to leave Kempton. And while London was only a two day drive, whatever would she do if she got there. Her relations in Mayfair would only send her back to Kempton.

This time she looked at this carriage, this pair of carefree devils, and scowled.

Men! For once she was rather glad that Kempton was not overrun with them. They put the most impossible notions in a lady’s head.

“Preston, this will only take a moment,” Roxley was saying, still attempting to lure his friend away from his labors.

“Yes, well, you needn’t bother your friend, my lord,” Tabitha said as politely as she could, “we should be on our way. To our Society meeting.” Besides, who knew what sort of unsettling notions this Mr. Preston would inspire. “We would not want to keep you and Mr. Preston from your . . . your–”

Oh, bother, how did one describe a wager that was naught but foolish and a grand waste of time, money and effort?

“Oh, it is no trouble,” Roxley said grandly. “Would do Preston some good to meet some respectable ladies. His aunt is forever harping on about it.” The earl turned to his friend, arms crossed over his chest, his boot tapping impatiently. “Come now, Preston! Make your bow or word will spread that I keep uncivilized company–Lady Essex will never let me hear the end of it.” The earl turned and waggled his brows at Harriet.

Tabitha could only surmise that Lady Essex would not be happy to discover them in the company of this “Preston” person, no matter how prestigious Lord Roxley thought him.

Then she spied him, this Mr. Preston, rising up from beside the forge, bellows in hand and prestigious was hardly the word that came to mind.

Everything Tabitha suspected about him–that he was not fit company, that he was a scandalous dangerous rogue–ignited like sparks from the hot fires–bright and sure one moment and gone the next.

Oh, Mr. Preston might well be a gambler and a rake, and quite possibly as rapscallion as they came, but much to Tabitha’s greatest horror, he was utterly intoxicating to look at.

Sinfully so.

And no, the word that came to mind was definitely not prestigious, but rather something more simple and straightforward.

Ruin.

He rose up, no ugly Hephaestus, but like a very Adonis. This she knew for certain, for Lady Essex kept a statue of this legendary hero in her morning room, one her father had picked up on his Continental tour so many years ago.

At least this version had the decency to keep his breeches, boots and shirt on–though barely. The white linen shirt that might once have been fashionable, was open to his waist and plastered to his body, his smooth, muscled chest gleaming from his labors.

A gentleman would never appear in public so–without his cravat, without his gloves, without all the proper trappings. Why this Mr. Preston was nearly . . . Dare she even think it? There was no other word to describe the man.

Naked. Undressed. Unadorned.

Not that he needed anything to gild his form–for it was perfect.

Tabitha pressed her lips together in shock. Good heavens, what was she thinking? Wasn’t it bad enough her limbs burned as if she’d been dipped in the heat of forge? Her heart pounded with an odd twitter, and she knew she should glance away, not gape, not stare, and yet she couldn’t . . . didn’t want to.

He shook his head and his tawny hair fell about his shoulders like an unruly mane. His dark eyes flicked a glance toward her and for a moment, Tabitha had the rare feeling of being pinned in place–like one of her father’s specimens–as if this man’s very gaze could capture her. But his regard didn’t last very long, for he all-too-quickly looked away, dismissing her as hardly worthy of his attentions.

Not that she was the only one to witness his hasty regard.

“Don’t be such a curmudgeon, Preston,” Roxley complained, rocking on his boot heels, his hands now folded behind his back. “It is bad form. Besides you’re utterly safe from the advances of young ladies here in Kempton. Not one of these misses has a hope or prayer of ever finding a man to catch in the parson’s mousetrap.” The earl winked at the ladies. “Cursed the entire lot of them.”

Cursed. This brought the man’s gaze up, a flicker of interest in his dark eyes.

Tabitha, who was rather proud of the Kempton curse, nay tradition, suddenly felt rather embarrassed. Why Lord Roxley made them sound like country simpletons and nothing could be further from the truth.

“Cursed?” Preston asked, setting the bellows down, one of his dark brows tipping with amusement and his piercing gaze once again fixed on Tabitha. “Is that so?” He reached for a rag and began to wipe his hands clean.

“Very much so,” Roxley teased, winking again at Harriet. “Been that way for centuries. Can’t find a man to marry a one of them. Not and live to tell you about it. Why they still recount the tale of poor John Stakes, and he’s been dead nigh on two centuries. Named the demmed public house for him after his Kempton bride–”

Tabitha could take no more. “My lord! No one puts any faith in those old myths.”

Daphne stepped forward and added, “Certainly not! Why four years ago, Miss Woolnoth married Mr. Amison, and they are perfectly suited.”

Harriet’s eyes widened, and she looked about to reveal the truth.

That Mr. Amison drank shamelessly and had only married Miss Woolnoth because he had sought a cheaper means to buy her father’s best ram. He might have gotten the sheep, but he also got a wife that nagged endlessly.

So perhaps they were perfectly suited. However, the Amison’s marriage only seemed to fortify the last remnants of the Curse’s legacy that a marriage to a girl from Kempton would only end in tragedy.

“Indeed, my lord. We are certainly not cursed,” Tabitha rushed to say. Tucking her nose in the air, she added, “We simply choose not to marry.”

Of course, the general lack of marriage partners in Kempton, the dowry to tempt one or the opportunity to gain a man’s attention also factored into her bravado.

There was a moment of silence from the gentlemen, then Lord Roxley let out a loud laugh, but it was Mr. Preston’s reaction that set Tabitha’s teeth on edge.

The man actually let out a loud snort of derision. As if he had never heard such nonsense.

“Ladies who choose not to marry!” Lord Roxley laughed again. “Ah, if only the females of London would adopt such forward thinking, eh Preston? You might be able to attend a ball or a soiree without causing a complete stir.”

There was another snort from Mr. Preston, which only grated on Tabitha more so. And given what the earl had just revealed–that Mr. Preston was a source of scandal in Town–she knew him for the mean creature he was–the type of man who disavows marriage, yet spends his time ruining young, innocent ladies of their virtue as a matter of course, robbing them of any future chance of happiness–the very lowest sort of beast.

“Mr. Preston–”

Roxley barked out a laugh. “Miss Timmons, you should know–”

“Now, now, Roxley, let the chit have her say,” Preston said. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Miss Timmons?”

Tabitha drew a steadying breath. “Sir, I will have you know, I never intend to go seeking a husband and am quite content with the notion.” There, she’d managed that much–it had been a long time since she’d spoken her mind and fortified by her first success she continued unabashedly, “Marriage offers no benefits to a lady, save leaving her a servant to a man’s fickle whims and his selfish demands.”

Her uncle would have apoplexy over such a brazen statement.

Much to her shock, this odious Preston looked more amused than annoyed, for he grinned at her, stalking forward like a lion, the king of the forest having discovered easy prey within his lazy reach. “Truly?” His gaze swept over her again and when he finished his quick appraisal, one brow rose in an arched bow, as if poised to strike.

She dug in her heels and gulped. “Yes.”

He nodded. “And you and your companions have no intention of marrying?”

“I cannot speak for Miss Dale or Miss Hathaway but I consider myself quite happily situated if I may be so frank.”

Then again, any woman foolish enough to marry a man like this Mr. Preston would most likely find herself abandoned and her heart broken.

Preston moved even closer to her until he stood before her, his bare chest just a hand’s width away from her wide eyed gaze. So close she could see the rivulets of moisture running down the muscled expanse before her, nearly feel his pulse as it raced from his heart. He smelled of his labors, of the charcoal in the forge and of something else, something so masculine that it wrestled with Tabitha’s better nature and left her bereft of common sense.

It left her wanting to inhale deeply and reach out and touch him, if only because suddenly she had the sense of the ground beneath her shifting.

Then to her horror, he leaned over and whispered in her ear, “If I might be so bold, Miss Timmons, what exactly do you know of men’s whims or for that matter the desire a lady feels?”

The implication of his words hit her with the same force as if he had struck her. Tabitha stumbled back, out of his reach, her cheeks flaming. “Ooooh! How dare you!”

The wretched fellow laughed and turned his back to her, stalking back to his work, dismissing her in much the same manner as he had earlier. “Miss Timmons, if you had ever dared, you wouldn’t make such a foolish statement.”

She stepped back and took a deep breath, her hand resting over her stomach which seemed to have filled with butterflies. Catching hold of what little bit of composure she still possessed, she let fly with a hot retort.

“We speak our minds quite freely here in Kempton, Mr. Preston. There is nothing wrong with a lady who knows her own mind and chooses not be ruled by a man and his arrogance.” Tabitha raised herself up to her full height and stood her ground.

“You do speak quite freely, don’t you, Miss Timmons.” Mr. Preston barely looked back as he tossed this remark over his shoulder. Yet then he paused and turned. “And do all the young ladies of this town share that trait?”

On either side of her, Daphne and Harriet nodded their heads in sisterly unity.

Lord Roxley began to chuckle, but when he found himself facing three outraged misses, and perhaps knowing that this furious trio would in all likelihood be reporting this encounter to his great aunt, he coughed and stepped aside, leaving his friend to bear the wrath of their fury all alone.

Preston picked up the bellows and then looked over at them. “Then I would say it isn’t the ladies of this village who are cursed, but every man within fifty miles.”

Share this:

  • Share
  • Pocket
  • Tumblr
  • Print
  • Email
  • Reddit

And the Miss Ran Away With The Rake by Elizabeth Boyle

By Barb Drozdowich 1 Comment

Welcome To Sugarbeat’s Books – The Home of the Romance Novel!

elizabeboyleromaSensible gentleman of means seeks a sensible lady of good breeding for correspondence, and in due consideration, matrimony.

Which is exactly the sort of advertisement that makes practical-to-a-fault Daphne Dale’s heart flutter. A sensible gentleman, in her estimation, is the perfect match and she’s even more convinced once she’s exchanging sensibly romantic letters with her very appropriate suitor. That is until Lord Henry Seldon strays into her path. He’s everything she’s vowed to avoid—a rakish charmer whose very touch seduces her practical sensibilities and her resolve.

Lord Henry Seldon was not amused when his nephew placed an advertisement to find him a wife.  Yet he couldn’t resist replying to the note from “Miss Spooner.” And once he discovers he’s corresponding with none other than the disarming Daphne Dale, he finds it’s too late to disavow his heart. Now it is up to Henry to prove to Daphne just how insensible—and powerfully passionate—true love can be….

Why you need to read this book:  First of all, I love anything that Elizabeth Boyle! This is book 2 in the Rhymes with Love series and like the previous book, Along Came A Duke, this is just a wonderful read!

And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake is available on Amazon

 

Excerpt:

Miss Spooner, 
I will be frank. Your reply to the advertisement in the paper displayed exactly how little you know of men. No wonder you are yet unmarried. Either you are a frightful scold or the most diverting minx who ever lived. I suppose only time and correspondence will abate my curiosity. 
~A letter from Mr. Dishforth to Miss Spooner

Chapter 1

“Miss Dale, you appear flushed. Are you coming down with a fever? That will never do, not here at Miss Timmons’s engagement ball!” Lady Essex Marshom declared, turning to her recently employed hired companion, Miss Manx. “Where is my vinaigrette?”

While the beleaguered young woman dug through a reticule the size of valise to find one of the many items Lady Essex insisted Miss Manx have on hand at all times, Daphne did her best to wave the dear old spinster off.

“I am most well, Lady Essex,” she told her, sending a look of horror over at her best friend, Miss Tabitha Timmons. The last time Lady Essex had pressed her infamous vinaigrette into use, Daphne hadn’t been able to smell a thing for a week.

“You do look a bit pink,” Tabitha agreed, a mischievous light flitting in her brown eyes.

Daphne bit back the response that came to mind, for ever since Tabitha had gotten herself engaged to the Duke of Preston, she’d become as cheeky as a fishwife, displaying none of her previous sensible nature.

This is what came of marrying a Seldon.

Daphne tried not to shudder right down to her Dale toes, for here she was in the very heart of Seldon territory—at their London house on Harley Street where Tabitha and Preston’s engagement ball was being held.

But Daphne couldn’t begrudge Tabitha her happiness—there was no arguing that Preston had her glowing with joy. And the engagement had brought them all back to London. Where all Daphne’s hopes lay.

Ones that rested upon a certain gentleman. And tonight, Daphne carried high expectations she would be . . . would be . . . She glanced over at her dear friend, and whispered a secret prayer that when she found her true love, she might be as happy.

And how could she not with Mr. Dishforth somewhere in this room?

Yes, Mr. Dishforth. She, Daphne Dale, the most sensible of all the ladies of Kempton was engaged in torrid correspondence with a complete stranger.

And tonight she would come face to face with him.

Oh, she would have stared down an entire regiment of Seldons tonight if only to attend this ball. To find her dear Mr. Dishforth.

“Who looks a bit pink?” Miss Harriet Hathaway asked, having just arrived from the dance floor, looking altogether pink and flushed.

Meanwhile, Lady Essex was growing impatient. “Miss Manx, how many times do I have to remind you how imperative it is to keep one’s vinaigrette close at hand?”

Harriet cringed and asked in an aside, “Who is the intended victim?”

Tabitha pointed at Daphne, who in turn mouthed two simple words.

Save me.

And being the dearest friend alive, Harriet did. “It is just Daphne’s gown, Lady Essex. The pink satin is giving her a definite glow. A becoming one, don’t you think?”

Bless Harriet right down to her slippers, she’d tried.

“She’s flushed, I say,” Lady Essex averred. Then again, Lady Essex also like any opportunity to bring out her vinaigrette, and had even now taken the reticule from Miss Manx and was searching its depths herself. “I won’t have you fainting, Daphne Dale. It is nigh on impossible to maintain a lady-like demeanor when one is passed out on the floor.”

Tabitha shrugged. It was hard to argue that fact.

Yet Harriet was ever the intrepid soul and refused to give up. “I’ve always found, Lady Essex, that a turn about the room is a much better means of restoring one’s vitality.” She paused and slanted a wink at Daphne and Tabitha while the lady was still engrossed in her search. “Besides, while I was dancing with Lord Fieldgate, I swore I saw Lady Jersey on the other side of the room.”

“Lady Jersey, you say?” Lady Essex perked up, immediately diverted. Better still, she failed to remember that she should probably be chastising Harriet for dancing with the roguish viscount in the first place.

“Yes, I am quite certain of it.” Then Harriet did one better and looped her arm into the spinster’s, handed the hated reticule back to Miss Manx and steered the old girl into the crowd. “Weren’t you saying earlier today that if you could but have a word with her, you’d have our vouchers for next Season?”

Just like that, the hated vinaigrette was utterly forgotten and so was Daphne’s flushed countenance.

A Lady Jersey sighting trumped all.

With Harriet and Lady Essex sailing ahead, Daphne and Tabitha followed, albeit at a safe distance so they could talk.

“You are taking a terrible risk,“ Tabitha whispered to Daphne. “If Lady Essex were to find out–“

“Sssh!“ Daphne tapped her finger to her lips. “Don’t even utter it aloud. She can hear everything.“

It was a miracle as it was that the old girl hadn’t discovered Daphne’s deepest, darkest secret—that she’d answered an advertisement in the paper from a gentleman seeking a wife.

There it was. And the gentleman had answered her. And then she had replied in kind. And so the exchange had gone on for the last month, all anonymous and mysterious and most likely beyond the pale and ruinous if anyone discovered the truth.

Certainly, if Lady Essex found out that such a scandalous correspondence had been carried out right under her nose, then the only notes Daphne would be composing would answering the messages of condolences for Lady Essex’s fatal heart ailment.

“Do you think he’s here yet?” Tabitha asked, looking around the room.

Daphne shook her head, glancing as well at the crush of guests. “I have no idea. But he’s here, I just know it.”

Her own Mr. Dishforth. Daphne felt that telltale heat of a blush rising in her cheeks. At first their letters had been tentative and skeptical, but now their correspondence, which was carried out in a daily flurry of letters and notes, had suddenly taken a very intimate turn.

I would write more but I have obligations this evening at an engagement party. Dare I hope my plans might intersect with yours? 

Daphne pressed her fingers to her lips. An engagement party. Which could only mean, he was here.

At Tabitha and Preston’s ball. Her Mr. Dishforth.

Wear pink if your plans take you to such a festivity and I will find you. 

So she’d donned her brand new pink satin gown and come with breathless anticipation of finally putting the mystery of Mr. Dishforth’s identity to rest.

Which would also stop Tabitha and Harriet from worrying over the entire situation. When they’d discovered what she’d done, rather was doing, they’d been shocked.

“Daphne! How could you? An advertisement? In the paper?” Tabitha had said, clearly taken aback. “You have no idea who this Dishforth might be.”

Harriet had been more to the point. “This bounder could be exactly like that horrible man in Reading last year who advertised for a wife when he already had one in Leeds. Why he could be one and the same!” 

Daphne cringed, for her Cousin Philomena, who was intercepting the letters being sent by Mr. Dishforth and passing them along to Daphne, had made the very same argument. Twice.

“You won’t tell Lady Essex, will you?” she’d begged. Lady Essex did not take her role as their chaperone in London lightly. If she caught wind of this illicit correspondence—given the spinster’s strict notions of suitable partis and proper courtship—Daphne’s chance to discover Mr. Dishforth’s identity would be lost.

Forever.

But luckily for Daphne, her friends, who were more like sisters to her, had agreed to keep her secret, as long as she allowed them to have the final say in Mr. Dishforth’s suitability before Daphne did anything rash.

As if she, a proper and respectable Dale, of the Kempton Dales, would do anything less.
Still, Daphne shivered slightly as she recalled that last line from Mr. Dishforth’s recent missive. The one she hadn’t read aloud to her friends.

I will be the most insensible gentleman in the room. Insensible with desire for you.

Smiling to herself, she stole another glance around the room, hoping beyond hopes to find some way to distinguish the man she sought from the press of handsome lords and gentleman who filled out the distinguished guest list.

“Daphne, don’t look now, but there is a gentleman ahead who is paying you close heed,” Tabitha whispered.

Indeed there was. Daphne tried to be subtle as she looked up, well aware that any gentleman in this room could be him.

But immediately she shook her head. “Oh, heavens no!”

“Why not?” Tabitha asked.

“Look at the cut of that coat. It is not Weston,” Daphne said. No, complained. For if any of the three of them knew fashion, it was Daphne. “My Mr. Dishforth—” for he was her Dishforth “—would never use that much lace. And look at the overdone falls of that cravat.” She shuddered. “Why with all those wrinkles it looks as if it has been tied by a stevedore.”

Tabitha laughed, for she was well used to Daphne’s discerning and mostly biting opinions on fashion. “No, no, you are correct,” she agreed as the rake sidled past them, casting an appreciative glance at Daphne’s décolletage.

Not that such a glance wasn’t to be expected. The gown was a bit scandalous and Daphne had ordered it in a moment of passion—wondering what Dishforth would think of her, so elegantly and daringly attired.

Lady Essex came to a stop to gossip with an old friend and Harriet drifted back toward them. “Now quickly, who is on your list, Daphne? Let’s find your Dishforth.”

Daphne plucked the list from her reticule. For the moment she’d learned that Mr. Dishforth was attending Tabitha’s engagement ball, the trio had scoured the invitation list for possible suspects.

“Lord Burstow,” Tabitha read over her shoulder.

The three of them glanced over at the man, and discovered their information hadn’t been entirely correct.

“However did we get him so wrong?” Harriet whispered.

“He is well over eighty,” Tabitha said, making a tsk, tsk sound.

“And the way he shakes, well, he’d never be able to compose a legible note, let alone a letter,” Harriet pointed out.

They all agreed and struck him from their list, and once again went back to their investigation.

“Tell us again what you do know,” Tabitha prodded.

Daphne, with Harriet’s help, had assembled a thick dossier on everything she knew about Dishforth.

A compilation that would have rivaled the best produced by Harriet’s brother, Chaunce, who worked for the Home Office.

“First and foremost, he is a gentleman,” Daphne said. “He went to Eaton—” a point he had mentioned in passing. “And his handwriting, spelling and composition all speak of a well-educated man.”

That fit most of the men in the room.

Daphne continued on. “He lives in London proper. Most likely Mayfair, given the regularity of his posts.”

“Or at the very least,” Harriet added, “has been in London since the appearance of his advertisement.”

“Nor did he quit Town at the end of the Season,” Tabitha pointed out.

Daphne suspected he might be a full-time resident of the city. “His letters are all delivered by a footman in a plain livery.”

“Sneaky fellow,” Harriet said. “Livery would be so helpful.”

Oh, yes, Mr. Dishforth was a wily adversary to track down. The address his letters were sent to had turned out to be a rented house situated quite nicely at Cumberland Place–something the trio had discovered while they’d been purportedly walking in the park.

“It is too bad we have yet to meet Lady Taft,” Tabitha mused, glancing around the room, referring to the current occupant at that address. They had been able to learn–with the help of Lady Essex’s well-thumbed edition of Debrett’s–that her ladyship had two daughters and no sons.
Sad luck that, for it meant that Dishforth most likely resided elsewhere. Then again, Daphne was using her Great-Aunt Damaris’s address for her letters to avoid Lady Essex discovering the truth.

“If we do not find Dishforth tonight,” Harriet said, “then tomorrow we knock on Lady Taft’s door and interview her butler as to why her ladyship acts as Dishforth’s intermediary.”

“Or who her landlord might be,” Tabitha suggested.

“No!” Daphne exclaimed, for she held a secret hope for a much more romantic venue of their first meeting. And storming the portals of Lady Taft’s rented house did not fit into that scenario.

Of course, all of what Daphne knew about the man assumed that he was being completely honest with her. That his letters were not as fictional as his name.

Certainly she’d been honest with him.

Mostly so. Certainly not her name. For she had replied to as Miss Spooner, the name of her first governess. It had seemed the perfect pseudonym at the time. Hadn’t her own Miss Spooner eloped one night with a dashing naval captain?

Still it wasn’t only her name which wasn’t true. Daphne shifted uncomfortably, for she hadn’t been been completely honest with Mr. Dishforth. She hadn’t mentioned her lack of  finishing school. Or how she loathed London.

But some things were best not admitted in a letter.

And good heavens, if everyone was completely honest in courtship, no one would ever get married.

Woolgathering as she was, Daphne hadn’t noticed that Lady Essex had returned.

“Miss Dale, you appear undone.” The old girl studied her with those piercing blue eyes of hers.

“Positively flushed, I say. Miss Manx, my vinaigrette—”

“I am quite well,” she rushed to reassure her.

“It is most likely the heat in this room,” Lady Essex declared. “A ball in July—I never! Do you suppose this Owle Park of Preston’s will be so stifling?”

“No, Lady Essex, not in the least,” Tabitha assured her. “Owle Park is most delightful. Large airy rooms and a wonderful view of the river.”

“A river? That is promising, as long as it isn’t spoiled with all the heat,” she said. “Young ladies are not to their best advantage when they are damp with the heat. Ruins good silk.” She shot Daphne a significant glance, for earlier the lady had declared her pink silk too hot—which had been Lady Essex’s polite way of saying, “utterly improper,” and had suggested a more modest muslin for such a warm evening.

But Daphne had been determined. She was going to wear pink, and when both Tabitha and Harriet remarked how pretty and engaging Daphne appeared in her new gown, the old girl had relented.

For if there was one thing Lady Essex wanted for Harriet and Daphne, it was for them to show well. She was taking great delight in claiming full credit for Tabitha’s engagement to Preston, and now had her sights set on a triple play, but only if she gained excellent matches for Daphne and Harriet.

“I hope you will be attentive to the right gentlemen, Daphne Dale. No more of this missish and particular behavior you’ve displayed of late,” Lady Essex said in no uncertain terms and probably loudly enough for half the ballroom to hear. “And bother your lack of dowry. Men tend to ignore those things when a lady is as fetching as you are. If I had but possessed your hair and fine eyes, I would have been a duchess.”

“Is that why you turned down the earl, Lady Essex?” Tabitha teased. “You were holding out for a duke?”

“Not all of us can be as lucky as you, Miss Timmons!” the lady declared. “A duchess, indeed! And Preston’s bride, no less. The Seldons must be in alt over Preston getting married. And to think we all shall be there.”

Daphne shuddered as she always did when she heard that name. There was nothing that set a

Dale’s teeth to rattling like that one single name.

Seldon.

How it was that the rest of English society didn’t see them in the same light as every Dale did, was beyond Daphne.

“Miss Dale, would you please find a way to smile over Miss Timmons’s happiness,” Lady Essex chided.

“Oh, just say it,” Tabitha told her. “You wish I wasn’t marrying a Seldon.”

“I know I would never marry thusly,” she said diplomatically, because she had resigned herself to the notion that her dearest friend was wildly in love with Preston, and he with her.
If only . . . he wasn’t a Seldon.

“Daphne,” Lady Essex scolded, “that feud has dragged on for how long? A century?”
Three actually, but Daphne was going to correct her.

“I would think the Dales and the Seldons could forgive and forget!” Lady Essex said. “It is all very tiresome. Besides, Tabitha is far better off marrying Preston than that odious Barkworth her uncle thought to force her to marry.”

Tiresome feud, indeed! Daphne was only glad her mother wasn’t here to hear such a thing. More so, that she wasn’t here to see her only daughter attending a Seldon ball–against her mother’s express wishes.

“Never fear, Lady Essex,” Tabitha said, looping her arm into Daphne’s and continuing their stroll around the room, “when I am married, Daphne will have no choice but to fall in love with the Seldons as well.”

“How right you are,” Lady Essex agreed. “Once she has attended the house party at Owle Park and seen your happiness in marriage, all this nonsense between the Seldons and the Dales will be forgotten. For by then, she will have found a husband as well.”

Owle Park. Daphne glanced away, the very mention leaving her at odds. The Duke of Preston’s country home. The Seldon family seat. A house as marked to the Dales as if it were an annex to Sodom and Gomorrah. “You are coming to the house party?” Tabitha pressed. What she really meant to ask was, Are you coming to my wedding?

Daphne stilled. Her parents, while delighted that Tabitha was making such an advantageous match, remained dead set against spending a fortnight in enemy territory.

In a Seldon house.

In such a place, her mother had said with a deep shudder.

Though they hadn’t been so ill-mannered to say it thusly in Tabitha’s hearing.

“I have been discussing the matter with my mother,“ she told them. Discussing it was not quite the right way to describe the situation.

When Daphne had broached the subject, her mother had gone straight to her bed and spent two straight days encamped there, crying and wailing over the request, certain that taking her only daughter, her unwed daughter, to a Seldon house party was akin to consigning her to the nearest house of ill-repute.

Everyone knew the Seldons practiced the worst sort of debauchery, but out in the country? Well away from the prying eyes of Society, who knew what sort of depravity they would witness, be subjected to . . .

We will all be ruined. Or worse, her mother had wailed and complained to her sympathetic husband.

What exactly “worse” implied, Daphne didn’t know. She only hoped that Tabitha wouldn’t soon regret her marriage into such a notorious family and especially to its infamous duke. And his equally notorious relations—whom Daphne had managed to avoid meeting thus far.

“Of course she is coming to your wedding,“ Lady Essex said, handing her fan to Miss Manx. “If your mother can see fit to allow you to attend the engagement ball, surely she will set aside her own prejudices and allow you to attend the duke’s house party. Why half the ton is mad for an invitation, and the other half is just plain mad over not getting one. Your mother is no fool, Daphne Dale.“
That might be true, Daphne wanted to tell Lady Essex, but her mother was a Dale through and through–both by marriage and birth. Her disdain of the Seldons was not born from a lifetime of distrust, but generations of enmity.

“At least you are here tonight,” Tabitha said, smiling.  “She didn’t forbid you to come to my engagement ball.”

Daphne pressed her lips together, for her mother had not exactly given her permission to attend.
Quite the opposite.

Certainly she had meant to keep her promise to her mother when she’d left Kempton and come to London with Tabitha that she would not spend a moment more than was necessary in the company of the Seldons.

Certainly tonight would suffice as ‘necessary,’ with the likelihood of meeting Mr. Dishforth so close at hand.

Even if it meant enduring a dance with Preston’s uncle, Lord Henry Seldon.
She couldn’t help herself, she shuddered.

And apparently made a bit of a face.

“Your thinking about Lord Henry, aren’t you?” Harriet said, giving her a nudge with her elbow.

“Please do not pull such a face when he comes to collect you,“ Tabitha added.

“I wasn’t thinking of Lord Henry, nor am I pulling a face,“ she lied, forcing a smile onto her lips.

“You are and you were,” Harriet said. Sometimes there was no getting anything past her.

“Traitor,” Daphne whispered.

“Not my feud,” Harriet replied with a shrug.
Meanwhile, Tabitha stood there, arms crossed and slipper tapping impatiently.

“Oh, bother both of you!” Daphne said. “Yes, I promise I will appear the most gracious and contented lady in the room when I have to dance with him.”

“I don’t see what has you in such a state,” Harriet said. “From what Roxley says, Preston’s uncle is a most amiable fellow. A bit of a dullard, really.”

“Tsk, tsk,“ Lady Essex clucked. “Whatever are you doing, Harriet, listening to that rapscallion nephew of mine? His opinions hardly hold any credit. And Miss Timmons is correct, Miss Dale, you cannot go to the supper dance pulling such a face. Just dance with Lord Henry and be done with the matter.“

“How many times do I have to explain it?” Daphne huffed with a sigh of exasperation. “He’s a Seldon.

If my family discovers I have danced with him, supped with him . . . ”

She couldn’t help herself. She shuddered.

Every time she thought of dancing with Lord Henry, she saw quite clearly every Dale bible across England being opened and her name being vehemently scratched out.

And in some cases gouged out.

Great-Aunt Damaris would waste no time in ordering a new one in which would be inscribed a reordered family lineage.

One that did not include Daphne.

“Daphne, I do not know what has come over you,“ Tabitha scolded. “I thought you’d come to like Preston.“

“Oh, he seems to have come around,” she admitted, “but I think that has more to do with your influence, Tabitha, and nothing to do with his inherent Seldon nature.”

“Inherent Seldon nature?” Harriet’s nose wrinkled. “Listen to you. You sound like the worst sort of snob.”

Daphne took offense. “I am no snob, just well versed in the Seldon family history. Even Lady Essex will tell you that blood runs thick.”

Lady Essex pressed her lips together, her brows deeply furrowed, for indeed she did believe thusly, but she could hardly admit such now. Instead, she made every appearance of searching the room for her previous quarry, Lady Jersey.

“Again, I have to ask, why must I dance with him?” Daphne grit her teeth and lips into a tight smile, if only to appear slightly amenable.

“It is Seldon tradition,“ Tabitha repeated for about the fourth time, “that whoever is standing up with the bride dances at the engagement ball with whoever is standing up with the groom.“
Harriet chimed in quickly. “And you will do so because Tabitha is our dearest friend. And we will not have her happiness marred in any way whatsoever.“ Her words were both a reminder and a bit of scold.

“You could dance with him,“ Daphne pointed out. For wasn’t Harriet as much Tabitha’s friend as well?

“I told you, I already promised that dance to another,“ Harriet said, folding her arms across her chest. “And it is only one dance.”

“It is not just one dance,“ Daphne pointed out. There was also the supper arrangements. She had to dine with him. “You both know that my mother would not approve.“

“Your mother is in Kempton.” Harriet pointed out. “And we are here in London.”

“Gracious heavens, Harriet,“ Lady Essex declared, squinting at a spot across the way. “There is Lady Jersey! And here I thought you’d made it up to keep me from pressing my vinaigrette upon Miss Dale.“ She made a very pointed glance at the three of them, a warning to say that nothing, nothing, got past her, and then said, “Come now, Harriet, Miss Manx, we shall secure those vouchers for next Season–if they become necessary.“ Again the sharp glance that spoke quite pointedly to the fact that she would prefer Harriet and Daphne to get on with the business of finding suitable partis and stop dragging their heels.

Tabitha sighed. “I am ever so glad to have found Preston . .  . Goodness, speaking of him, there he is being buttonholed by Lady Juniper. Probably over the seating arrangements. Again.“

Daphne glanced in that direction and found Tabitha’s soon-to-be groom indeed cornered by an elegantly clad lady in mauve–the aforementioned Lady Juniper. Preston’s aunt and Lord Henry’s sister.

Tabitha glanced back at Daphne, her desires clear.

“Yes, yes, go save him,“ Daphne told her friend. “I will be safe and sound right here.“

“If you find him—” meaning Mr. Dishforth “—bring him to me immediately.” Tabitha wagged a finger in warning. “Don’t you dare fall in love at first sight and run away with him before I grant my approval.”

“Tabitha, I am far too sensible for such a thing. I promise, when I find my Dishforth, I will not run away with him.“ She crossed her heart for good measure.

Satisfied, Tabitha hurried across the room to make her rescue while Daphne took a moment to study one and all filling the Seldon ballroom. She was probably the first ever Dale to cross into this unholy space.

So far, so good, she mused, considering she’d been here nearly an hour and had yet to be ruined. Or sold to an Eastern harem.

Oh, Tabitha could swear up and down that there was nothing out of the ordinary in the Duke of

Preston’s residence. Yes, the Red Room was a bit ostentatious, but only what one would expect of a ducal enclave.

And certainly, Daphne had to concede, there were no odd remnants of the Hell Fire Club or some other league dedicated to debauchery laying about in open view.

Those damning bits of evidence, she suspected, were kept in the basement.
She made a cautionary note to herself: Do not go in the cellar.

Then again, considering she’d risked everything by coming here tonight, the cellar might be the least of her worries. Especially if her family found out what she’d done.

Not even that threat had deterred her. She was here.

Only because he was going to be here. Her Mr. Dishforth.

And after tonight, theirs would no longer be a love affair of merely letters.

Oh, she knew exactly what was going to happen. She was going to look up and their eyes would meet. He would smile at her. No, grin with delight that he’d discovered her.

In that so-very-magical moment they would know. Just know they had found their perfect partner.
Dishforth would be dressed elegantly, but sensibly. No grand waterfall or scads of lace, just a well cut Weston coat, his sterling white cravat done in a simple, but precise, mail coach and he’d be handsome. Perhaps even as handsome as Preston.

Oh, she’d concede that much about a Seldon. Preston was a good-looking devil. But all the men in his family were reputed to be too well-put-together by any measure.

Daphne sighed. Still, if Mr. Dishforth was even half as grand. . . Then she glanced up, telling herself it was all naught but a ridiculous, fanciful dream.

And it was just that, a silly fancy, until she looked across the ballroom and it happened exactly as she thought it ought.

Share this:

  • Share
  • Pocket
  • Tumblr
  • Print
  • Email
  • Reddit

Cynders and Ashe by Elizabeth Boyle

By Barb Drozdowich Leave a Comment

Welcome to Sugarbeat’s Books – The Home of the Romance Novel!

Today we are talking about a novela that I read a bit ago that I loved! It is by one of my favorite authors – Elizabeth Boyle – and is a take off on my favorite story – Cinderella. Enjoy!

Cynders and Ashe by Elizabeth Boyle
ISBN: B007OWPAY8
Publisher: Self-pub
Release: March 25, 2012
Source: I purchased this book to read and review

Blurb:
Lord Ashe has one last night to find his perfect bride, but his search is hampered by his memories of an enticingly mysterious lady who stole his heart five years earlier.  But his search to uncover her identity has been hampered by two simple facts: he never saw her face and doesn’t know her name.  But her kiss…oh, he’s never forgotten her kiss.

Miss Ella Cynders went to the Ashe ball to help a friend and landed in the suds when she caught the eye and the heart of the all too handsome Lord Ashe.  Knowing that such a lofty lord could never marry an ordinary lady’s companion, she flees into the night, vowing never to return.  But five years later, Ella cannot forget the passion she found in his arms or the love that his kiss promised.  Should she dare find a way into this one last ball and back into his heart.

 *   *   *

I come to this story from a biased point of view. I really haven’t met an Elizabeth Boyle book that I haven’t loved!  This story is like others….thoroughly delightful to read! This story starts with a look at the life of Miss Ella Cynders, a seamstress who is working for the well known Madame Delaflote.  She is waiting to hear the outcome of Lady Fitzsimons’ thoughts on her latest creation – a fairy gown for the daughter to wear to a masked ball.  Lady Fitzsimons has a coveted invitation to the Ashe Ball for that very evening!  Anyone who received an invitation to this ball, treasured it, especially if they had an unmarried daughter. Tonight is the night that Lord Ashe chooses his bride. More importantly, he will choose his bride from someone attending the bal so attendance is a must.

Lady Fitzsimons is appalled at the gown that Ella has created for her daughter to wear to the ball, and it is clear to Ella that Madame Delaflote will blame this disaster on her, resulting in her losing yet another job.  After Lady Fitzsimons leaves, Ella finds her invitation to the ball and is convinced by her friends to wear her fairy gown creation and attend the masked ball. It’s a repeat of Cinderella that is told in a lovely fashion!

I always enjoy a new telling of the Cinderella story, and this one is excellent. In 46 short pages, it had me cheering, sighing and crying at the happily ever after ending.  The character of Ella is a woman who needs a lucky break.  In the years since she met Lord Ashe the first time, she’s lost one job after another, and it looks like she is due to lose another over the dress fiasco.  Although she considers doing the “right” thing by returning the invitation, it is in her best interests to re-unite with Lord Ashe.  Lord Ashe has been looking for Ella for the last 5 years.  He is now at the end of his grace period that his parents have given him, he’s been unable to find her, and so he has agreed to choose a bride from the attendees of the ball.

Ms Boyle manages to make 46 pages feel alot longer than they really are!

This novella is well worth picking up – it’s a wonderful read that I highly recommend!

Cynders & Ashe is available on Amazon

Share this:

  • Share
  • Pocket
  • Tumblr
  • Print
  • Email
  • Reddit
  • Go to page 1
  • Go to page 2
  • Go to page 3
  • Go to page 4
  • Go to Next Page »

Primary Sidebar

Follow Me

Facebooktwitterpinterestlinkedinrss

Subscribe to Blog on Email

Enter your email address to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

Join 16,653 other subscribers

Available Now on Amazon

Available Now on Amazon

Do you need a primer?

Do you need a primer?

Need help with your website?

Need help with your website?

Are you listed?

Book BLogger list 250

Enter your email address:

Delivered by FeedBurner

2021 Reading Challenge

2021 Reading Challenge
Barb has
read 0 books toward
her goal of
100 books.
hide

0 of 100 (0%)
view books

Archives

Footer

Privacy Policy

Copyright © 2023